


Of Scent and Scentability

by ZoeMontrose



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Birth, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Pregnant Sidney, Slow Burn, basically 18k of ridiculous Sidney, reference to vine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24472903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeMontrose/pseuds/ZoeMontrose
Summary: "We looked into some Alpha services for you and-...""You can't be serious. Please tell me you are not serious," Sid grouses, because that crosses a line. He’s not sure when he drew it, but it’s been crossed and he does not want to be having this conversation anymore. “I am fine!”The man that appears on his doorstep later that week on an early October morning is tall, lanky, with large hands and an awkward face, droopy eyelids, big lips and a crooked nose. Broken, maybe, in the past.He’s unmistakably Alpha.In which Sid finds happiness, even if he fights it.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 22
Kudos: 242
Collections: The 2020 Sid/Geno Exchange





	Of Scent and Scentability

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IsaacBlade89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsaacBlade89/gifts).



> My contribution to the 2020 Sidgeno exchange 
> 
> The more pregnant Sidney is the more ridiculous he becomes.
> 
> Huge thank you to my Beta, I really couldn't have done it without you. You kept me sane and if you didn't manage to keep me sane you went insane with me! Thank you!

**September 17th**

Sid knows the second Flower and Kris come inside that they have something planned. He doesn’t know what, but he can recognise Flower’s shifty eye anywhere. At least it’s not his _‘I already did something and you will hate it_ ’ expression, but still, Sid knows that he has no other choice but to accept his fate and let things come as they will. 

He sighs, deeply, manhandles Kris’ and Flower’s coats from them and shoos them inside, gracefully failing to hear their niggling about mother henning. 

They make it halfway through lunch before Flower puts down his cup of coffee with enough force that Sid fears for the glassy surface of his living room table and clears his throat. 

“We’ve been thinking.”

 _Oh no_ , Sid thinks. 

“We’ve been thinking,” Flower repeats, his elbow digging into Kris’ side with enough force that Sid winces in sympathy. He knows how pointy they are. 

Kris nods and shrugs off Flower’s elbow. Flower doesn’t even throw him an annoyed look, and that’s what clues Sid in on the gravity of the conversation.

He huffs out a breath and gingerly lowers himself deeper onto his couch, taking some of the weight off his swollen feet. Might as well get comfortable. His hand finds his stomach automatically. He’s showing enough at this point that he can easily rest his palm on the bump, fingers splayed protectively. 

“And we think you need help.” 

“I’m fine!” Sid snaps automatically in return, hackles rising without his explicit permission. 

He's had this conversation with his parents countless times already and he's perfectly fine on his own, despite the social stigmatisation against single Omegas. The disagreement bubbling in Sid's mind, mingled with the unease and irritation about his friend's sudden involvement in his business, easily brews over into anger, though he manages to quickly stamp down on it, reigning his mouth back in and flexing his fingers to alleviate some of the tension building up behind his eyes and chest. 

Being a pregnant and emotional wreck is annoying. 

"I'm fine," he repeats instead, calmer. 

“You’re really not.” 

“Flower-...” 

“Look, we care for you, okay? And we worry,” Flower continues, his hand motioning forcefully back and forth between them. Sid swallows roughly and averts his eyes to his own cup, playing quietly with the rim. “And lately, you haven’t been doing so well.” 

The implication that Sid needs more than help is very obvious and he can’t keep from bristling at the words. He’s been struggling, yes, but he’s been doing okay, for himself and his baby. Classes are hard and demanding and so is his part time job TA-ing, but he’s been managing, he can support himself. Just because he forgot groceries that one time and slept through his 8 am class, something everybody does at some point, doesn’t mean he needs some Alpha to watch over his shoulder and keep him in line. 

He moved out at 17, to the big city, where an Omega can do whatever an Omega wants to do without restricting speculations about which neighbour you’re going to marry, and he’s valued his taxingly gained independence. 

A baby added to the mix is not something he was counting on, but it’s not going to change anything. Maybe he’ll have to work a little harder than normal, put some money away for his savings, maybe he’ll have to fight for his rights again, but he’s going to do it! Those are sacrifices he’s willing to make for both his and his baby’s future. 

He scowls silently into his cup, then forces himself to take another deep breath and relax his face. Flower completely misses the chance to tell him it’ll get stuck that way otherwise and Sid’s heart gives a painful clench. 

Things have changed, since he was stupid enough to get knocked up and knocked down by Anthony. 

And God, how Sid hates change. 

Anthony once accidentally bought the crunchy peanut butter instead of the only correct smooth variation and Sid isn’t exactly proud of the meltdown he had back then, but, well, things should submit to a certain order, like smooth peanut butter and one brand of boxers and Flower being a teasing mess. 

Not this… overbearing, somber, worried man. 

“Thanks,” he says, drained, shifting to rest his head against the back of the couch. “But I’m okay, you guys.”

"We looked into some Alpha services for you and-..." 

"You can't be serious. Please tell me you are not serious," Sid grouses, because _that_ crosses a line. He’s not sure when he drew it, but it’s been crossed and he does not want to be having this conversation anymore. 

"- And we found some with really good recommendations, we asked around and got personal reviews from friends and all." Flower doesn't let the interruption dissuade him, like it should, instead sliding several printed out pages of paper across the livingroom table. 

Sid regards them with disdain. He catches half of an article's headline, _Effects of Alpha Withdrawal on Omegan Pregnancies and…_ before the nausea rolling in his stomach compels him to look away, instead zeroing in on the ugly stain on the wall leading to the kitchen, a remainder from one of their college parties. He’ll have to paint it over, before the baby comes. 

The baby. 

That’s something to focus on, something positive, something, or someone, who won’t come into his house and backstab him like this. 

"I'm fine!" He says, through gritted teeth. Maybe he should paint the wall something other than white. Kids are messy after all. Maybe red. Maybe he’ll use Flower’s goddamn blood if he doesn’t stop talking. 

"Sidney Patrick -..." 

"We're not trying to tell you how to handle your business, Sid," Kris interrupts, his voice a soothing, deep Alpha baritone that settles something in Sid's chest, taking some of the weight from his lungs. "It's your business. But we're worried for you, you know, because we are your friends?" 

Forcing his eyes away from the stain, and onto Kris’ fingers that are clasping Flower’s wrist in a binding hold, probably to disencourage him from ranting another tirade, is a heavy test of Sid’s patience. Somehow, he manages, exhaling slowly. It can’t hold his attention for very long though and before he can stop himself, his gaze falls back on the damning articles, taunting him, strewn out on the table next to his mug like tiny little bombs threatening to explode any second. 

He's not thirsty anymore. 

"We're your friends and we're only trying to help. If you're confident that you can do this on your own, that you don't need help-..." 

"I don't," he whispers, to himself and the papers and his cup of tea and his two meddling friends. He's not sure to whom he's saying it, but he _needs_ to say it. _He's fine_. 

"Then we'll believe you," Kris says, and that’s that. They change the topic after that, Kris showing off pictures of his beautiful baby girl until Sid relaxes enough to take a slow sip of his cold tea. 

Some of the tension lingers, though, and the papers burn a hole into his heart every time he accidentally catches a look at them. They make him feel sick. 

When they leave, Kris and Flower take turns hugging him, pulling him in close and allowing him to cling tight for a second or two, or maybe three, dousing him in their comforting, familiar scents. 

And then they're gone.

All that's left are some dirty dishes and those damn papers. Sid crams them into the first drawer he can reach, closes it with more force than necessary and sinks back onto the couch. 

He's exhausted. So, so exhausted. 

_Then we’ll believe you_ , Kris’ words echo in his head, bouncing between the empty spaces left behind from too much grading and reading and the uncertainty of his future. It doesn’t escape his notice, the formulation, the _will_ that insinuates that they don’t believe him, yet. 

Well he’s going to show them. He’s going to prove that he’s fine, that he can handle this, thank you, next! 

Later, though. 

For now, he'll just…. He’ll just take a quick nap. Just for a few minutes. 

**September 24th**

  
  


And anyway, Flower and Tanger are exaggerating, he hasn’t been that bad, Sid thinks, setting down the last box his parents shipped to him on the nursery room floor, filled with baby stuff he’s sure he’ll never need.

He doesn't need an Alpha for this, he can carry his own damn boxes. 

Yes, his hands are shaking, not trembling, shaking, way heavier than they should after carrying two boxes. And the sweat pouring down his back, gathering between his shoulder blades before rolling down his spine like raindrops on a car window, is excessive, but that’s fine. 

He’s fine. 

Sure, he’s been drained and sleeping a little bit more, and he’s been having headaches, sometimes so bad he can’t get up without throwing up, and yeah, maybe he’s been a bit sluggish lately, but he’s also pregnant. Those things are normal. 

Even if he took his friend’s advice, who’s to promise him that some Alpha could waltz into his life and fix these… _problems_ for him? 

(They’re also obvious withdrawal symptoms, he’s not stupid, but Sid is very good at - admittedly off key - singing and whenever those intrusive thoughts come up he belts out whatever song he’s got stuck in his mind as loudly as he can. 

Hopefully, the reports of babies being able to hear sounds while stuck in the womb are wrong. Otherwise he’ll have a lot of apologising to do once his baby is born.) 

**September 30th**

  
  


It escalates a week later when he’s so drained after his morning class that he lies down for a quick power nap and sleeps through his alarm, through his afternoon classes and through the night, wakes up once blearily in the morning to throw up and goes straight back to sleep. 

When he finally fights into wakefulness sometime mid afternoon the next day, he finds he isn’t hungry, even though his last meal was over 24 hours ago, before he threw it back up.

He can barely sit up, movements restricted by the violent spinning in his head, and he’s got four missed calls from the professor he’s TAing for. One looking at the screen hurts so badly though he has to put the phone down again, cursing and clawing at his hair, greasy and sticking up under his fingers.

And he wouldn’t mind too much, normally, but he’s got someone else to think about. 

Sid curls up on the couch, arms wrapped around his stomach and cries. He cries until his throat feels raw, until the headache pounding behind his eyes robs him from his breath, until his skin itches and he can’t breathe anymore. 

Flower and Kris were right.

He can’t lie to himself anymore. 

Maybe he needs help. And he knows that he can rely on his friends, that Flower would have the guest room ready for him at any time, but...

But Flower and Tanger have families of their own. Little kids and beautiful mates and Sid… Sid has an unfinished degree in a field that doesn’t guarantee him a job, a miniscule, dingy, empty apartment and no Alpha. 

What can he offer his baby? Nothing. Not even a sire. 

Only an Omega dame stupid enough to get knocked up by someone who doesn't give a damn about him. 

About them.

And what can he do about it? Cry on his couch like every Omegan stereotype? 

No. 

He tears himself out of his wallowing, heaves his body into the bathroom, wipes his nose and face clean and drinks a tall glass of water. 

No, he can’t offer another parent to his baby. But he can ensure that the one parent his baby is going to have is doing his very best! 

And to do his best, he needs to be at his best. And right now… maybe right now he can’t be at his best on his own. 

He finds the printed out pages Flower had left crammed into one of the kitchen cupboards, with names and websites underlined, detailed notes and reviews from friends, filled with so much obvious care for him Sid has to fight down tears stinging his eyes once again. 

And he’s tired. He’s so, so tired! 

So he dials the first number his eyes can focus on for long enough, leaning back heavily against the edge of the kitchen counter. His hand not holding the phone finds his stomach, stroking slowly over the taut skin, his mind finding comfort in the repeated action. 

Him and his baby, they are going to do this. 

“McWebster Alpha Service, Ms. Abadi speaking. How may I help you?” 

So this is really going to happen. He's giving in, giving up. The hand on his stomach tightens, pressing heavier against the abdomen. For his baby. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello,” Sid finally brings himself to say, body lurching forward. “I... I need help.” 

“Sir? Are you okay?” And once he has his mind made up there is no stopping him. Sid word vomits the whole story to the poor woman on the receiving end, curling his body forward protectively over his stomach until gravity pulls him down to sit on the kitchen floor, knees drawn up to his chest and oh, his cheeks are wet again.

He needs to be brave, for his baby. Even if being brave means being vulnerable and crying on the phone at 2pm, in his pyjamas, unshowered and hungry. 

Bravery is a strange construct.

**October 3rd**

  
  


The man that appears on his doorstep later that week on an early October morning is tall, lanky, with large hands and an awkward face, droopy eyelids, big lips and a crooked nose. Broken, maybe, in the past.

Capable, Sid notes absentmindedly, tucking his thumbs into the corners of his jean pockets. 

He’s not what Sid would call conventionally handsome, but he’s unmistakably Alpha, and the frightened part of him that has been doubting his decision to call the agency, that has been banging pots and pans together in his mind and yelling that he can do this on his own, quiets for the first time when they shake hands. 

The Alpha's hand engulfs his fully, skin warm and dry against Sid’s. 

"I'm Evgeni. But call Geno, is easier for American tongue, yes?" 

"I'm Canadian," Sid snaps reflexively, then tries not to squirm under the amused gaze assessing him. "That's different." 

"Okay, Sidney from Canada," Geno says and Sid has the distinctive impressions he's being made fun of. "Canada, America, is all same, all bad alcohol and no beets in food. And all cannot say my name, so is Geno, okay?" 

“It’s Sid,” he corrects and fights the twitching in the corner of his lips and instead crosses his arms in front of his torso, gripping his upper arms and squeezing tightly at the sudden feeling of yearning in his chest, a longing to push into this Alpha's - Geno's - space and tuck his nose against the hint of collarbone he can see poking out above his collar. 

Clearing his throat, he takes a step back, deeper into his apartment. 

His urges have really been going haywire with the pregnancy. 

They both cautiously scent the air in greeting, Geno doing so way more gracefully than Sid, probably, who clumsily sniffs the air in the general direction of Geno’s neck. He smells of ice and pine, fresh and earthy, and a little bit spicy. Like cinnamon? Or gingerbread? 

That might also just be his cravings, though. 

Sid discretely wipes his palm on his jeans afterwards, fingers trembling, and motions Geno inside to show him his room. 

Geno brings with him two medium sized bags which he carries in one hand, biceps straining under a tight button down shirt, Sid notes not so absentmindedly. His pants are a bit too short, riding high over his ankles. They're surprisingly skinny for a man of his size. 

He’s got a soulful gaze and a soft voice and he says _“_ I’m understand, is weird situation for you. Know you maybe not want, but I’m here, okay? I’m here!”. He says it gently, yet unyielding, and Sid finds himself silently opening the door wider to let him in and doesn’t feel as much of the guilt for giving up and not doing it on his own as he thought he would. 

And that’s that, for a while. 

Geno moves into his guest bedroom and he integrates himself seamlessly into Sid’s routines. His belongings start appearing in the shared common areas, his toothbrush in the bathroom, his shoes lined up beside Sid’s own by the front door.

And he’s the perfect gentleman. Geno does his own laundry and when he notices that Sid is not home, busy or too tired, he throws his things in with his own. He cooks and cleans and is just… _there_ , beside Sid when they watch tv, across from him during dinner, behind him when Sid’s back pains get so bad that the trip up the stairs to the bedroom becomes an adventure.

When Sid curls up on the couch for a short nap that turns into hours of sleep, Geno covers him in blankets. He prepares cool wraps for his swollen feet and reminds him to eat if he’s sunken too deeply into his TA duties again. 

Still, they might live in the same household and they might eat side by side, but by all means they lead two completely separate lives beyond that. Sid doesn’t dare call Geno a friend. Maybe an acquaintance, but he’s still generally a stranger housing in Sid’s guestroom. They eat together, they chat in the hallway and watch TV together. 

And Geno is always there, just like he said he would be, and all Sid would need to do is reach out and take what he’s offering. He just… he can’t. 

It’s a sign of weakness Sid has taught himself not to show.

He grew up in a working family, where people were strong and independent and feelings were shared when the lights were turned off and confessions were left behind there, in the dark, like shameful little secrets, until they clogged up the rooms and heads like curling smoke and poisoned every occupant, slowly but surely. 

Knowing something not to be healthy and acting on the desire to change are two very different things. 

And, as already established, Sid detests change, protests it loudly more often than not.

He’s not any better with these things. 

He feels like he’s already failed himself, failed his baby, by paying a service to send an Alpha to make sure he doesn’t go completely off the deep end and he draws the line at anything more.

**October 14th**

In the end the decision is taken from his hands. 

He’s grading some quizzes for one of his TA classes when his eyelids start fighting him, the hand holding the pen drooping until the pen noisily clatters onto the paper. He’ll have to clean up that spill later, he thinks nonsensically, and then he’s out. 

When he wakes up again, an indeterminate amount of time later, he’s on the couch. Or no, not quite, at least he doesn’t remember his couch being able to move on its own. His body is rising and falling, gently, cradled in warmth and the scent of a winter forest, settling and seeping into the cracks of his bone deep exhaustion and filling them like fresh air on the first breath. 

What he can see through his slitted eyes though is the living room, not the winter forest he’s imagining behind his closed eyes. Hanging on the wall is the ugly lamp Kris brought him as a joke housewarming gift and over there is the picture frame with his family, just above the always empty vase he keeps on the little dresser. 

That’s when the heavy hand on his back registers, stroking up and down, up and down, along the ridges of his spine, flattening along the curve of his lower back and drawing up again to cradle his head. 

Geno. 

That’s what’s moving under him, too. 

Geno. 

Some tiny part of him wants to be embarrassed, wants to sit up and demand an explanation, but there is a bigger part, the part that ultimately wins out and has him sink back down, slump even more of his weight onto Geno’s body, that part understands that he needs this, has been craving this viscerally. That part lets him know he needs this by the ache in his bones easing, by the claws retracting from the vulnerable flesh of his lungs, by the tight knot in his stomach uncurling for what feels like the first time in months, by the slowing flow of his blood. 

It’s a miracle he hasn’t bared his throat yet. 

It tears a sob from his chest, low and needy, and he lets Geno hold him through it, whispering soft words in Russian and stroking his back until Sid has tired himself out.

He’s ashamed by how quickly even the energy to cry has left him. 

“You okay? I’m find you on table, so worried.” 

“Yeah,” Sid croaks out, clearing his throat when his voice breaks on that single noise. He’s thirsty and there’s a killer headache brewing behind his eyes but he feels good like this, pressed up in a line of heat against Geno’s side, with Geno’s hands on his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Faint, I think.” Geno sits up slowly, dislodging Sid from his perch atop him and sliding him onto the couch. Sid protests softly in a wordless whine, but Geno returns after a moment with a glass of water and pesters him into draining it completely. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles to the little split of corner on the rim of his glass. He’ll have to replace his broken dishes before the baby comes. “Thank you, for, uh, this.” 

Opposite to everything he’s been trying to convince himself of, he knows his body. He knows he’s been neglecting it by not giving it the thing it so desperately needs while he is carrying a baby: an Alpha’s touch. He’s been starving himself, starving his instincts, and the withdrawal has been wracking his body. 

Sid bites down on a sniffle and curls up more tightly against Geno, leaning into the soothing touch on his back. 

He’s not deaf, he’s heard Kris and Flower whispering about the way he’s been withdrawing, hardly leaving the house, simply because he can’t find the energy to do so anymore. The way they were pushing for Sid to make use of an Alpha Service it had been rather hard _not_ to hear them. 

And maybe he’s read the articles about what can happen if an Omega is isolated during pregnancy, the effects that can interfere with the baby’s development and make the birth harder on them both. He _knows_ , really. But that doesn’t mean he wants to burden some unfamiliar Alpha with cuddling him until he can stand on his own two feet again.

Except… his grades have been slipping, and the professor he TAs for sent him a concerned email the other day, about the grading he’d been tasked to do not getting in on time, asking if Sid needs some time off during the pregnancy. 

And he can’t lose this job, and he can’t jeopardize his degree, his future. And he can’t, in good conscience, give the baby a harder life than it’ll already have, Sid being a single dame and all. Yes, the stigmatisation of single Omegas raising babies has lessened, but... The baby doesn’t deserve an unstable home life on top of everything else.

So Sid forces himself to relax, and after he finally gains control of his breathing again, he starts listening to the soothing nonsense Geno’s babbling as background noise to Sid’s panic.

“My mama, when I’m small, she pull my ear and slap my head when I’m be mean to Omegas. Raise me be very respectful,” he says with the attitude of someone who’s learned that to be a given, fingers digging a little deeper into the tense muscles of Sid’s neck. Sid stifles an appreciative groan against his shoulder. “I’m come to America, study at college for become engineer. Have Omega friend, she go through rough time and I’m offer help. Works so good, she tell others, is how I earn money. After I’m finish degree I start with Agency.” 

Sid forces his tongue to move, to unstick from the roof of his mouth, to wiggle past the dryness in his throat. 

“Why engineering?” He croaks, shifting his head from its hiding spot against Geno’s shoulder to look up at him. 

“When I’m come here, no English,” he says, sheepish, his broad shoulders moving under Sid’s head in a shrug. “So I’m think, I learn something I do with hands, become engineer. Am very good with hands.” 

And boy, can Sid attest to that, wiggling against the amazing pressure kneading the tension lumps straight from his back. 

“Wait. Sound wrong, not what I mean!” Geno makes an aborted gesture, cheeks flushed, and Sid can’t help but laugh, flopping his head back down against the couch cushions. “Oh. What is sound? Most adorable, don’t hide,” Geno teases, poking Sid into the side, which, rude, until he has to wiggle away or face death by pillow suffocation. 

But Geno follows him relentlessly, his long fingers pressing gently into Sindey’s sides until he’s a squirming, giggling mess, his face flushed and smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. It occurs to him, in a vague sort of way, that he hasn’t laughed like that in… well, he doesn’t even know. 

“Stop it, you monster!” He protests between honking laughs, and Geno relents, his own face split into a shining grin that hurts to look at for too long. 

“Yes, tickle monster. Take job very serious,” Geno responds solemnly, his eyes twinkling with mirth. 

“You’re the worst. I’m pregnant, you should be nice to me.”

“Oh? Says who?” Despite his challenging tone, all Geno does is tug Sid close again, settling his arm over Sid’s shoulders and trailing his fingers soothingly along his forearm. He maneuvers Sid so casually that you’d think they’d been cuddling for years.

Sid takes advantage, his body screaming to soak up any affection he can get after starving it for so long. For once, he listens to it. 

**October 17th**

  
  


Things change after that. Instead of sitting beside Geno with a foot of distance, Sid not only allows but seeks out the contact Geno offers. He settles snug against him, thighs and shoulders pressing together while watching tv, ankles linked while eating dinner, clinging to Geno’s arm when his back pains complicate the way upstairs like he’s 80 and not in the middle of his 20s. 

Geno brings him food into the library when he’s stuck at school, scolding him about dressing too lightly until the librarian inevitably tosses him out and becomes his partner in crime when it comes to smuggling treats to his professor’s dog. 

Sid, in turn, grows more comfortable with another presence in his apartment. He’s still having trouble, sometimes, when the anxieties return and his instincts overpower him, but the knowledge that someone is there… it helps. 

He starts sleeping normal, healthier hours and feeling more well rested once he’s awake, he’s hungry now most of the time and not ashamed of eating whenever he wants. 

Geno quite helpfully supplies him with his craving foods too, standing in the kitchen and watching him like a hawk while Sid shovels things into his mouth. It’s a bit weird, but Sid shrugs it off. 

He doesn’t tell his parents though, and only admits it to Flower and Kris in a passing sentence. The perceived reality of having somehow given up… it’s still very present. 

When he’s particularly anxious, when all that his thoughts do is turn in circles, Sid gives in to the most basic of his Omegan instincts: He nests. 

Usually only for a night or two, until the ball of yarn that is his mind has untangled again. He’ll drag out all of his blankets and build a little pit in the middle of his bed, layer it with pillows and burrow into the softness, close his eyes and imagine his dame there with him, stroking his head like she did when he was small and scared of the monsters under his bed. She’d hold him close and wrap him into her blankets and tell him that everything will turn out alright. 

This time, when he’s done and wrapped up in the quilt his dame made for him before he moved out, he still can’t settle. Something niggles at his thoughts, like an elbow nudging him repeatedly, and he finds himself out of his nest before he can question the weird urge, grumpily wandering his apartment on the search for… whatever it is that he _needs_ to have to complete his nest. 

He’s past the hall closet and the kitchen and just aimlessly striding past the couch when it catches his eye and nose. The green hoodie Geno left draped over the cushions. His favourite, if the way his scent is ingrained into the fabric is any clue, clouds of ice and pine wafting over to him and mellowing him out. 

His fingers itch. 

He shouldn’t take it, it’s not his, Geno didn’t consent to this… 

...or did he? 

Sid checks down the hallway to the closed guest room door where Geno is probably sleeping and licks his lips. Geno is here to make him comfortable and happy, after all. Maybe if he steals it for just this night, washes it and returns it to the couch before he notices… That would be alright. 

He steps back over to the couch, feeling along the hem of the hoodie, worn thin over years of use, colours faded and stitching unravelling. 

Yes, his Omegan instincts tell him, yes, that’s what’s missing. 

He’s got the hoodie in his hands and is back in his nest in seconds, lining the inner wall by his head with the soft fabric and snuggling down, cheeks and ears burning in embarrassment. 

There’s no denying that it’s perfect now, though. 

He buries his cheek into his pillow, stroking his thumb once more along the stretched out hem and sighing softly. He’ll put it back in the morning. For sure. 

The soft purr rising in his throat is worth it, and before long, he’s finally asleep. 

**October 19th**

  
  


“You make me tea?” Geno’s leaning in the doorway, two days later, pyjama pants slung low on his hips, hair sticking up every which way and cradling the cup of steaming tea in his large hands. The buzzing in Sid’s mind has subsided, like a swarm of angry bees returning to their stock, thanks to some quality time snuggled up in his nest, purring at his own round stomach. He won’t deny that the soothing scent of Alpha wasn’t substantially involved, and maybe it left him a little embarrassed and bereft. 

“Yeah.” It’s not an _I’m sorry I might have stolen your hoodie and you don’t know it yet_ tea, Sid firmly tells himself. 

“With jam?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh.” 

He looks up from his book, blinking his eyes against the harsh light of the living room lamp. 

“Everything okay? Did I use the wrong jam?” 

“No,” Geno says quietly, slowly bringing the cup to his lips to take a sip. There’s a look in his eyes, something novel that Sid doesn’t recognise, something… maybe softer. It feels strange to watch him like that, intimate, domestic, so Sid returns to the sentence he has been trying to read four times now, the meaning still escaping his mind stubbornly even after the fifth. 

“Nothing wrong. Is perfect.” Geno comes to join him, plopping down in the armchair opposite of Sid, the living room table between them, and sips his tea. 

“Is raining, today.” 

Sid hums quietly and turns a page in his book. 

“Back okay?” 

“Huh? Oh, yeah. It’s fine. I haven’t been moving much.” He fidgets, wiggling around to test his back but it's really not hurting, at least not badly. It's been better lately. Chancing a look at Geno, Sid finds himself being watched. He flushes, caught, and returns to his work. 

Geno grunts. 

Sid scribbles down another note in the margin of the page. He’ll need to revisit his class notes, there’s a detail here he doesn’t understand. 

In his periphery he can see Geno get up again, which is strange, given that he just sat down, but Sid doesn’t doubt that watching him do his class work is the opposite of exciting. Maybe he’s taking his breakfast in the kitchen instead. He doesn't mind. Geno is free to eat wherever he wants. 

He doesn't mind. 

He refocuses on the paragraph, works through that one and the next and finally closes the book with a deep sigh. He’s just disposed of it on the livingroom table when Geno returns, balancing his cup of tea and a heating pad as well as Sid’s woolen socks in his arms. 

“G?” 

“Always sit for too long, read, read, read, and when stop three hours later, feet are cold. You always complain.” Geno pushes his way onto the couch, forcing Sid to scoot up unless he wants to be squashed, and wraps his unfairly long fingers around Sid’s right ankle, hefting his foot into his lap. “And then always stick icy toes under my thigh. I’m suffer, Sid. They not write in job description!” 

Contradicting his playfully scolding tone, Geno’s hands are unfathomably gentle, cool fingers brushing against the naked, thin skin at the inside of Sid’s foot, slowly rolling the thick wool upwards. 

For a second, Sid forgets how to breath, heart stuttering in his ribcage for one, two, three beats before resuming at double its pace, heat crawling into his cheeks, the tips of his ears, flushing the skin a deep, blotchy red. 

Geno dresses his other foot in much the same manner, then lowers both of them back to the ground and instead ushers Sid to lean forward a little, placing the heating pad between the couch cushion and his lower back. 

“There. Now, no back pains, yes? Always so grumpy with back pains.” 

He hasn’t really had an Alpha take care of him since Anthony decided that he did not want to be in the baby’s life. Anthony, who left Sid sitting on a pile of bills, without a degree, without stable income, who'd waltzed from Sid’s bed straight into that of the next Omega. 

“What you expect from someone call Anthony? Is stupid name. Thony sound like phony, and he a phony dick," is Geno's comment when Sid finally spills his whole, sordid tale during lunch one time. They're trying out this new place across the campus. The pasta is not anything to write home about, but the company is good. 

Laughter bursts out of Sid’s chest before he can help himself, choking on his water until his nose starts to burn and coughing into his napkin. Across from him, Geno grins in triumph. 

“Now Anton, is good Russian name! Anton sound like good, trustworthy Alpha, yes? Evgeni, Anton, almost same. Both Russian. So. I’m better Alpha, I’m be here. Not like A-Phony-Dick.” 

Sid dries the last of the water of his face, dabbing at the spot on the front of his shirt before giving up. Geno has witnessed him in worse conditions, like when he dipped grapes in mustard and got it all over his pants, somehow. 

“Yeah, he was a dick. One time, he promised he’d get me after class to have lunch and then ditched me to go see a movie with his friends instead. He didn’t tell me though, I waited for the entire lunch hour.” 

"Dick. Not An-phony dick but two-phony dick! Super dick,” Geno scoffs, piercing another forkful of pasta and pushing the bowl of pickles they ordered separately closer to Sid when he catches him eyeing it. 

He’s not mad about Anthony not being the sire in the baby’s life, not anymore. He was, in the beginning, so mad he allowed Flower to drive him out of town and into the nearest forest to douse whatever he possessed of Anthony’s in alcohol and set it on fire. 

Some people just want to see their cheating ex-boyfriend’s possessions burn. 

And anyway, he has to admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that Geno is doing a better job than Anthony could have ever done.

**October 28th**

  
  


Sid blinks and all of a sudden it’s late October and Geno has been with him for over a month. His stomach is growing, filling out, and none of his clothes fit anymore. Geno buys bags full of pregnancy clothes, complaining about the size of his thighs and butt all the while and in return Sid tries his best at cooking what Russian recipes he finds online. 

His baby develops a tendency for erratic dance moves. Or that’s what it feels like, anyway. 

Probably not his genes then. 

He’s been trying to get some work done in the campus library, but his baby, as well as his empty stomach, try to prevent any concentration that he manages to build up. 

Fortunately, one of those two gets solved when Geno stops by, carrying a coffee and a little bag from the bakery around the corner, holding sugary treats that crumble under his fingers and leave his lips sticky and sweet. 

Just what he’s been needing. How Geno knows these things is a mystery to Sid. 

“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip and poking in the corners to catch the last taste of sweetness. 

Geno’s cheeks are suspiciously flushed, eyes flinty like a baby bird. Huh. Sid chances a look out of one of the broad library windows. Well, it does appear rather cold outside, wind cutting through the treeline and ruffling the leaves off the branches.

He lets it slide and sips his coffee instead, hissing softly when the baby chooses that exact moment to kick forcefully against his abdomen. 

“Everything okay?” Geno makes an aborted motion across the table, then flattens his hands on the surface, fingers spread wide. They are long, Sid notes absentmindedly, long enough to span most of his stomach, probably. “Baby kick?” 

“Yeah, she’s very active. Dr. Morris, my gynecologist, said it’d start happening around this time.” Sid winces, humming softly under his breath and stroking his palm up and down over his bump. The fabric of his shirt wrinkles under the touch. 

"Good. Very strong!” 

“I wish she weren’t as strong, she’s destroying my bladder.” Sid complains and steals Geno’s cup, because he can, taking a deep gulp. The unexpectedly weird taste blooming on his tongue has him wrinkling his nose almost immediately. 

“Ew. What is this?” He gurgles out, keeping his head tilted backwards or risking tipping the stolen contents of his mouth down the front of his shirt. 

“Is almond milk,” Geno lectures without any real heat, sneaking the cup back out of Sid’s unresponsive hands. “Is healthy. You wouldn’t know.” 

He grimaces and, clamping a hand over his nose, swallows. 

"Ew.” 

“Dramatic.” Geno rolls his eyes and Sid fights the childish instincts to stick out his tongue at him. “Healthy. Good for you. Not like peanut butter.” 

“Peanut butter is good for me.” 

“No is not!” 

“It is, it’s a nut. It contains healthy fats.”

“Contain fat? Is only fat. Turn you fat.” Geno pauses, leans back and wiggles his brows. “You fat already.” 

“I’m pregnant, you jerk!”

The baby kicks again and Sid has to brace himself against the table’s edge, fingers scraping over the uneven wood, leaving behind dredges of dirt under his nails. 

From opposite of him, Geno reaches for his hand, prying it off the table’s edge to hold it between his palms. “Uff, very strong baby, huh? I can help somehow?” 

He’s happy that his baby is strong and active, he is, but he’d be happier if the kicking would stop, too, at some point. He _knows_ what could help, Flower’s articles were very outspoken on that part, but… he can’t simply ask that of Geno, if that’s even part of his job. 

On the other hand, this far he hasn’t shied away from any other of the more hands on aspects. 

"Uh, yeah, actually, I was wondering, if maybe you could…" he hesitates, pulls his lower lip between his teeth and taps his finger against Geno’s knuckles. The other hand brushes against his thigh under the table. 

"If I can what?" Geno prods, eyes patient and yet observant, waiting, like always. His hair has been tousled by the strong wind outside, sticking up every which way in tuffs and streaks and Sid bites down the instinct to flatten it down against his scalp. Prenatal instincts are strange, indeed. “Is okay, if you change mind.” 

“You know that, uhm, that pheromone theory, about unborn babies' reaction to Alpha scent and touch?” He waits for Geno’s nod to continue. “I was just wondering if maybe we could try that?” 

“You are sure?” Geno’s eyes zag from his stomach to his face and then down again, something in his scent shifting noticeably. 

“Yeah, I’m- Yeah.” 

Sid inhales sharply at the first contact of Geno’s large hand on his stomach, tentative and soft, fingertips barely brushing against the taunt skin, then exhales shakily. In unison with his breath Geno flatters his palm, his fingers spanning roughly half of Sid’s bump and curling carefully downwards as if to shield the baby from falling. 

Something inside of him relaxes. 

And then the baby kicks and awe transforms Geno’s face, hooded eyes widening to an owlish size, mouth falling open into a slack jawed ‘oh’. And then the floodgates open. All of a sudden Sid has a fully grown Alpha by his knees, stroking both of his hands over his stomach and cooing Russian words at his stomach that Sid has no chance of understanding, but there is no mistaking the soft, warm credence of his voice. 

She kicks twice more, but softer, as if hesitating, then halts completely. 

Geno’s hands stay where they are, a constant pressure, reassuring, present. His scent has transformed entirely, from it’s usual icy pine to something a little more soft, like the ice has been replaced by snow and the pine by fallen leaves.

They spend the next half an hour like that, huddled together next to each other after Sid convinces Geno that the chairs are a lot more comfortable than the disgusting library carpet. He’s got his head on Geno’s shoulder and Geno’s hands on his stomach and his daughter is calm and it’s good. 

It’s good.

**November 5th**

They go out grocery shopping because Sid is craving pickles and peanut butter and Geno insists that he is too crabby to be handled by the general public when he’s craving, which is of course a very valid reason for Sid to call Geno a _dickhead_ and snap his teeth at him. 

Geno has the audacity to laugh at that, full blown, head thrown back laugh, bright eyed and pearly and Sid’s cravings must be worse than he had originally thought because his heart constricts weirdly in his chest.

They bundle into the car and off they are to wander the depths of the closest Walmart. It’s not a good idea to go grocery shopping hungry, Sid knows, but Geno does a good job of keeping them on track. Which is to say, he puts back almost all of the things Sid chooses, like the adorable clock that looks like a cupcake, three jars of mayonnaise and some Christmas chocolate which, it’s only November, but their foil is shiny and he wants them for his nest. Geno lets him keep one. 

Like he’s not sneaking more chocolate in there himself than they weigh together. 

Sid grumbles, hems and haws until Geno at least allows him to keep a fuzzy little blanket with poodles on it, too. 

He’s not sure what he’ll do with it, but he needs it. Sid counts it as a victory anyway. 

Small, but a victory. 

The second they have secured the pickles, Geno unscrews the jar and hands it to Sid. He could have opened it himself, but the gesture is nice. The first two pickles barely register in his mind before he’s gobbled them down, though he slows at Geno’s warning glare. 

Choking in the preserved food aisle in a Walmart is not the way he wants to go, so he decreases the pace at which he eats them, following Geno who takes over the rest of their shopping. 

Geno can reach the high shelves, his hindbrain tells him helpfully. He doesn’t even have to get on his tiptoes and jump like Sid, he can just reach up, unfold his freakishly long arms and fingers and get whatever he wants. His hands, which are huge, no doubt cradle everything so gently, like it’s made of glass, like it’s fragile and worth to be treasured, even those nasty salt crackers that taste like desert sand and despair and Geno keeps insisting are good for him. 

Sid wrinkles his nose. 

He wonders what Geno would look like cradling a baby, a wrinkly, pink, wiggling newborn and heat explodes under his breastbone. 

He coughs, rubbing distractedly at the spot. 

Goddamn heartburn. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that many pickles on an empty stomach. 

“Excuse me?” Sid turns and almost instantly narrows his eyes at the woman fidgeting by Geno’s elbow. She’s pretty, with flaming red hair and freckles and large brown eyes. Omega, his nose informs him, her scent mellow and sweet. Sid huffs and stuffs another pickle into his mouth. “Could you help me real quick, I need to get something down.” And then she has the gall to tilt her head and blink her eyes up at Geno like Sid isn’t standing right there. 

Sure, yes, he and Geno are not mated, Geno’s not even his Alpha, but it’s still rude. 

Sid sets his pickle jar into their shopping carts, stuffs his hands into his pockets and frowns down onto the tips of his shoes. 

“Oh, sure.” In his periphery Sid can see Geno throwing a look his way, possibly at the way Sid’s scent took on a sour note, but he only stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets and turns to study the brightly colored labels decorating the store shelves. They’re much more interesting than dwelling on the way Geno jumps to offer the help of his extraordinarily long limbs to the other Omega, because he’s _just that good of a guy_ , or the way the woman is fluttering her lashes and pursing her lips as if she’s looking for the big romcom finish moment in the middle of the pickle aisle at Walmart.

As if. 

Little does she know, Geno is coming home with Sid, and for some reason, that thought does something to settle the sudden taste of bile crawling up Sid’s throat. 

But, Geno’s not his Alpha, Sid doesn’t have any claim on who he decides to help, who Geno flashes a sweet, lopsided smile at, who Geno charms into the tinkling little giggle Sid can hear spilling out of the other Omega. It’s not Sid’s place to care, no matter what the thought of Geno doing any of those things for some strange woman does to Sid’s squirming insides.

And jealousy is a normal symptom of Alpha withdrawal, one of the papers said, so. It’s fine. He’s just being stupid. 

Still. 

“My back hurts, Geno, I’d like to go home now.” Sid doesn’t know who’s more surprised by his words, Geno or he himself, but Geno must be well trained because in a matter of minutes Geno has both him and their groceries safely stored in the car. 

Sid is gratified by the quick response, and maybe a little smug at the memory of the woman’s dirty glare he’d caught a glance of as Geno ushered him toward the checkout. 

The territorial instincts Dr. Morris warned him about are stronger than Sid had expected. 

After they pack the groceries away and eat a quick dinner, Sid falls into bed, bone deep tired, fingers of one hand fanned over his stomach. With the other one he tugs Geno’s favourite hoodie deeper under his pillow. 

He’s not thinking about why he still has it. 

**November 10th**

They’ve been washing the dishes in comfortable silence for all of two seconds before Flower splashes some of the lukewarm water at him. 

“I don’t like to brag,” he starts, and that’s just a blatant lie, Flower is way too smug for a Beta, Sid thinks. “But I’m too happy with how things turned out not to say it: I told you so.” 

Sid grumbles something into his imaginary beard about Flower and bragging and hides his smile against his shoulder, absentmindedly straightening the schedule sticking to his fridge with a magnet. 

“You look good, Sid. Happy. Is he making you happy?” 

“Huh?” 

“Geno. Is he making you happy?” 

Sid pumps another splash of dish soap into the water to gain some time, staring silently down into the bubbles. Is Geno making him happy? Geno’s doing his job, so… 

“He’s doing his job really well.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” Flower dries his hands on the little hand towel Geno hung by his sink. It’s got ugly little yellow ducklings on it because of course it does. Geno saw it at Target and fell in love with it at first sight, maybe because it was such an atrociously ugly thing he knew nobody else was going to buy it. Geno has a knack for picking up unwanted things, huh?

“Earth to Sid?” 

Flower’s hand appears so suddenly in front of his eyes Sid startles, taking an abrupt step backwards and knocking the dish soap into the full sink. From next door, they can hear the scraping of a chair, then quick footsteps. 

“Sid? Okay?” Geno’s in the kitchen and by his side before Sid can do more than blink, one hand cupping his elbow and the other steadying his upper body. “Need sit down? Back hurt, feet?” 

Without waiting for a response, Geno ushers Sid over to the table, urging him to put his feet up as he flutters around heating up one of the cherry pit pillows that seem to have invaded his house over night in the microwave. The whole time, Flower’s watching, his eyebrows raised and a knowing smirk stretched across his face. 

Sid flushes and ignores it. What does Flower know, anyway?

“I’m pretty sure it’s scientifically impossible to be that stupid,” Kris murmurs to his left side, lured into the kitchen by the promise of drama, probably. 

“Well, Sid has always been all about challenging the norm.” Sid reaches behind himself without taking his eyes off of Geno to smack Flower. 

Later, when they are sitting in front of the TV, sharing a bowl of popcorn like they did when they were kids, Sid pillows his head on Flower’s shoulder and draws the blanket up higher, one arm wrapped securely around his stomach. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, fingering one piece of buttery, soggy popcorn before throwing it for Flower to catch. “Yeah. I think I’ve been happier. With him here.”

Flower sighs, the sigh of a long suffering friend, which is completely unnecessary in the given situation, but wraps his arm around Sid’s shoulder and draws him closer. 

_He makes me happy_ , Sid thinks, but there are some things Flower doesn’t need to know.

**November 14th**

Geno and Sid have their first real fight the evening before his doctor’s appointment for the baby’s regular checkup, because Sid insists that he can drive himself and Geno has the completely incorrect opinion that Sid is a _dumb beetroot donkey boy who is too fat to fit behind a steering wheel_ and _goddamn pregnant_. 

He’s pregnant, correct, not disabled, he informs Geno, so Geno drags him outside in their pyjamas to his car, arms crossed in front of his chest and glaring until Sid has to admit defeat because, yes, he can’t comfortably fit behind the steering wheel without his bladder protesting violently and his hands still being able to reach all the knobs and buttons comfortably. 

He concedes defeat, which results in the agreement that Geno will drive him to his doctor’s appointment in the morning. 

Geno has the good grace not to crow too loudly in victory, but that might also be because the old lady who lives on the other side of the street has been glaring at them through her curtains for 5 minutes straight. His scent is smug and happy, though, and Sid has to turn away, has to hurry back inside and grumble about being tired, because the _need_ to curl himself into that scent, to submerge himself in it, to build himself a nest and just exist in it is overwhelming.

They arrive at Dr. Morris’ office a little after 10am the next day, escaping from the icy downpour outside to the cozy warmth of the little praxis. Sid’s lucky, he knows, because Dr. Morris’ mate is one of his mum’s close friends, otherwise he couldn’t have hoped to get an appointment at such a prestigious praxis. 

“Is dirty,” Geno scoffs, toeing at a little muddy footprint on the entrance mat. 

“It’s raining, of course there’s going to be a little mud!” 

“Dirty. Baby deserve better.” 

Sid casts a look heavenwards and shakes his head. 

“And I deserve someone with a better mood in the morning and yet, here we are. Stop complaining.” 

He takes off his coat and hands it to Geno when he nudges him, rolling up his damp sleeves and flexing his cool fingers. Already, his back is starting to ache from the cold and he sinks gratefully into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs lining the waiting room. 

While they wait, Geno coerces him into sipping a little mouthful of the lukewarm tea he hurriedly filled into a thermos before they left in a rush this morning, and Sid murmurs a quiet thanks when the feeling slowly returns to his fingertips and ears. 

He is forced to pick up one of the parental magazines with the brilliantly smiling, beautiful couple and their perfect baby on the cover when Geno starts cooing about the baby pictures hung up on the wall. It’s not because the sight makes him feel… something. He really does care about - Sid brings the magazine closer to his face - the changes of Alpha scents in the presence of their children. 

Apparently variations in Alpha scents have been recorded, a subconscious reaction of sires to appeal more to their offspring by softening their scents so as to not scare them with the strong and aggressive notes in their scents. Which, that’s interesting, but not really relevant for him. 

“Mr. Crosby?” 

Dr. Morris is a middle aged woman with kind brown eyes and laugh lines, a good head shorter than Sid, with strong, capable hands. Her eyes flicker briefly to Geno, though she does not mention the company, only addresses Geno with a kind smile and offers him the seat by the examination table.

Sid doesn’t exactly like these appointments, if only because he’s terrified that this will be the time they won’t find a heartbeat, and he’s probably projecting, but Geno appears twitchy at his side, wrinkling his nose and stepping closer. 

“You want I’m sit with you? Can also wait outside, if more comfortable,” Geno has to lean down to speak quietly into Sid’s ear, pushing his body in between them like he’s trying to shield him from Dr. Morris. 

Sid has to bite his lower lip to hide his smile at that and instead shakes his head no. 

Luckily, Geno accepts his word without a comment, sinking into the chair by the examination table’s side, one hand stretched out to support him while Sid heaves himself atop, probably in case he slips or something. 

He snorts. 

He’s been going to these appointments on his own for months now. 

Geno’s protective instincts are comforting though. And appreciated. And only there because Sid pays him to be, he reminds himself sternly. 

“This’ll be cool,” Dr. Morris warns him and it is, for a second, shocking him back to the present by his muscles freezing up, though Geno’s hand on his wrist and his scent in his nose calms him almost instantly. 

And then he’s distracted, from the cold and the touch and Dr. Morris and the praxis. 

Because there, on the screen, his baby breathes loudly, the steady _thump-thump-thump_ of a little heartbeat filling every little space inside Sid that had been empty, fitting into every little crook, into all the cracks caused by doubt and worry and fear. 

“Oh, look at her, there she is.” Dr. Morris says softly, moving the ultrasound slightly to the left. 

And then all he can focus on are a tiny face, with a tiny, tiny nose, tiny fingers curling against a tiny mouth, tiny eyes and Sid’s big, big, overwhelming love for this tiny life growing in his stomach. He barely registers the pressure easing from around his wrist, then gripping his fingers tightly, his own wet laughter ringing in his ears. 

“She’s perfect, oh,” he hiccups, pulling his sleeve over his hand and wiping at his cheeks. “Geno, look. Oh God, she’s beautiful.” 

“She is. Most pretty girl, most perfect,” Geno replies, voice wavering suspiciously. When Sid turns to beam at him, he finds him with wet cheeks and bright eyes, sniffling into his shoulder. The giddy happiness swelling in his chest bursts over the edge and he laughs again, tugging Geno in by the hand he is still holding and wrapping him into a tight hug. 

Later, after he’s cleaned up and dressed again, after his ultrasound pictures have been printed and his little booklet has been filled out, Dr. Morris takes him aside. 

Not that Geno really appears to be aware, cooing over the pictures as he is, Sid thinks fondly. 

“You have a good Alpha by your side, Sid. I have to admit, I was worried when you said you did not have an Alpha in your life,” Dr. Morris says, placing her hand soothingly on his lower arm. Her scent is soft and mellow, motherly, and usually, Sid can never help but feel like a newborn baby around his dame with her. This time though, he freezes up. “I’m so happy for you, that you found someone. He seems like a very good Alpha, too. Most of them wouldn’t show up to the appointments of their mates.” 

Sid should correct her, should do the right thing here, but he just… he can’t. He’s happy and strictly speaking, she’s not wrong. Geno has been by his side, has been his steady rock in the rushing water of his life. He’s been nothing but kind and funny, maybe a little bit pushy, yeah, but Sid would lie if he said he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the way Geno challenges him and teases him and cares for him. Doesn’t like the way his scent mellows him out, makes him want to purr for him, curl up in his clothes and…

Oh. 

_Does he make you happy?_ Flower’s voice asks, again. 

_Oh._

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s…. He’s amazing. He’s really been helping me,” he replies belatedly, heart thumping away behind his ribs. He chances a look over at Geno who’s stroking one of his fingers so very tenderly over the picture of Sid’s daughter that his heart jumps, then constricts tightly. 

_Oh no_. 

“And you look better, too. I was worried, last time you were too pallid and cold, and I thought-... but it’s all better now! You have a lovely flush, my dear, and you and the baby are healthy. I’d still like to draw some blood, look at your hormone levels, just to be sure. Okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” The dazed feeling of his sudden realisation gives way to a lurch of emotions, and he steadies himself against the counter. Almost immediately, like he knew it would happen, Geno is by his elbow, a strong hold on his arm and ushering him to take a seat. “Yeah, that’s fine. Of course. It’s fine.” 

He’s pregnant, he’s hormonal. Of course it’d be just his luck to project some kind of crush on the first Alpha to show him the time of day. 

It’s fine. It’s absolutely fine! 

  
  
  
  
  
  


During the next few weeks, until it’s almost late November, Sid stews on the new realization that his feelings toward Geno _might_ be more significant than he first thought. 

If Geno notices that Sid is being strange, that he’s being stared at, that Sid actively borrows Geno’s hoodies because they cheer him up and comfort him when he’s at his most emotional, then he has the good grace not to mention anything 

He catches himself watching Geno, now. Maybe he did it before already, wasn’t aware of it, but now that he knows that… he’s maybe got some feelings, it’s like he can’t stop. 

He watches Geno stir jam into his tea and thinks about how large his hands are. He watches him fold up the blanket on the arm of the couch and thinks about how his arms flex under his shirt. 

He watches him blink against the light after reading without his glasses for too long, because he’s a stubborn man who doesn’t like to admit that he needs reading glasses, Sid learns very quickly. 

He watches, and more often than not, when he looks over, Geno is already looking back. 

**November 30th**

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Geno is here because Sid pays him to be. Or rather, because Flower and Kris pay him to be. Sometimes Geno does something so ridiculously kind Sid is sure that it’s way out of his pay grade, but… what other reason does he have? 

One evening, when Sid still has a month to go in his pregnancy, they watch a nature documentary, because Sid had been grading for two hours until Geno ushered him up and onto the couch, hiding his grading sheets on top of the fridge like Sid won’t just drag a chair over there and get them down himself. On the other hand, he’s too comfortable, toasty warm against Geno’s side with Geno’s hands cradling and rubbing his stomach and Geno’s scent in his nose making him mellow. 

In retaliation, Sid steals another one of Geno’s hoodies, because he’s pregnant and crabby and cold and can’t find his paternity hoodie. Also it fits over his bump and swaddles him in a feeling of security. 

Damn his weird Omega instincts and prenatal anxieties. 

“Tired, Sid?” He’s already slightly out of it because he skipped his nap around noontime and watching TV with Geno always has him become sleepy. Happy and sleepy. Mostly sleepy though. 

The picturesque sight of turquoise ocean waves, white sandy beaches and schools of fish dancing through wide, sweeping coral reefs lulls him into a trance, and he doesn’t know if Geno does it on purpose or not, but the sweeping of his palm, up and down over his stomach, matches the soft sound of the crashing waves. 

“Look how pretty,” Geno murmurs against the top of his head, his nose brushing his curls. Sid sags more heavily against him. 

“Yeah.” 

“We-... You take baby there, someday. Show her beach and pretty fish and find shells for make pretty necklace.” 

Sid shifts, nods, absentmindedly tugs on the hand still covering his stomach when it stalls in its movement. 

“Oh. Yeah. Absolutely,” he yawns, wiping at the skin under his eyes. “You gotta do the necklace, though, I’m not good at that.” 

Next to him, Geno’s body grows tense and his scent turns sharp, for a second, and Sid complains about the sudden change with a little noise. _Like kitten_ , Geno likes to tease. “Yeah, I’m do that. Yeah.” 

Sid wants to lift his head to investigate the weird hitch in Geno’s voice, but he’s comfortable, and he really doesn’t want to dislodge Geno’s nose from his head, where it belongs, so instead he allows the lull to pull him back under, eyes growing heavy, pulling Geno’s hoodie sleeves over his fingers and balling them into fists. 

The lull is the reason why he’s not expecting the soothing atmosphere to switch so suddenly to the sickening image of a turtle caught in a plastic bag. It’s head is stuck through the handle, one of the arms caught inside the white plastic, slowly drawing it tighter around its throat. 

Sid’s eyes refocus on the sight without his permission. 

“ _Over a thousand turtles die, stuck in plastic like this, each year,_ ” the narration voice informs them. “ _Though we guess this number to be a gross underestimation._ ” 

His stomach drops, then gives a terrible lurch. Or maybe that’s his dinner making a reappearance. 

He’s up and bowing over the toilet in seconds, gagging and choking, distant memories of his early pregnancy months and morning sickness coming over him. Nausea rolls through him in heavy waves. Kind of like the ocean waves in the coral reefs, he thinks hysterically, clutching at the porcelain rim and rubbing over his lips with the back of his hand. Nothing came up, but the taste of bile floods his mouth anyway. 

“Shh, is okay, you okay,” Geno murmurs by his side, wiping Sid’s sweaty face with a cool towel and urging him to drink some water before slowly ushering him up and towards the stairs, one arm wrapped securely around his waist. It’s scary how in sync they are at this point and Sid’s heart thumps heavily in his chest at that thought. 

This close, and with his sweaty forehead resting against his shoulder, he can smell Geno’s scent, darker and earthier than before, but no less comforting. 

Sid catches one last look at the tv when he’s almost already all the way up the stairs, of the team of reporters carefully cutting the turtle out of the plastic bag, when it hits him. 

His throat closes up, his eyes start to burn and his lips curl back. 

He starts to cry. 

“Sid?” The slight note of panic in Geno’s voice does nothing to calm him down and Sid sobs once into the sleeve of his stolen hoodie. 

“You hurt? Anything hurt? We need go to hospital?” The note of panic grows into hysteria and Geno has his phone already halfway up to his ear when Sid finally gets enough of a grip on himself to lean back against Geno’s shoulder, wiping his snotty nose on his sleeve and hiccuping a soft:  
  
“The turtles are dying and I have plastic bags.” 

Geno stills under his hands.

“You… what? Cry because of turtle? Not hurt?” 

“No I’m not hurt, but the goddamn turtles are hurt. I’m a monster, G, I have plastic bags and the turtles are dying and how’s my baby ever going to love me like this? I-I’m jus’, jus’ a terrible human!” 

“What?” 

“The turtles are dying!” 

“Okay, Sid. Maybe is time for bed?” 

Geno gets him up the stairs and settled into bed and Sid is so exhausted from the lack of a nap and the crying and the _goddamn_ pregnancy that he’s out the second his head hits the pillow. He thinks he feels the brush of something along his hairline, trailing down over his cheek, but he’s not sure and too drained to force his eyes back open. 

In the morning, he has all but forgotten about the ghost of a touch as he fell asleep. 

Or rather, he has more important things to worry about, like the memory of ugly crying on Geno about turtles and plastic bags and probably getting his snot all over him. 

The baby wakes up around 5am but he wastes another half an hour lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and obsessing over being an embarrassing (turtle killing) human being, until his daughter decides enough to be enough and stomps rather forcefully straight onto his bladder. 

“Uff, yes, yes, ‘m getting up,” he grouses, bringing his palm to his stomach and pressing against the skin where he can feel a very insistent hand or foot kicking repeatedly against the abdominal wall in hopes of settling the baby back down. 

No luck. 

Nothing settles her, these days. 

Well, nothing except for Geno’s touch, really. And he really shouldn’t be thinking about that. Only bad things lie down that path of thought. 

Like Geno’s touch, and Geno’s large hands, and Geno’s kind eyes, and Geno’s-... 

“Alright! Time to get up!” 

Clumsily Sid rolls himself off the edge of the bed, catching his feet under himself and heaving his protesting body into the bathroom. 

When he wanders downstairs half an hour later, clinging to the railing because the baby has still not calmed down, quite the opposite, at this point it feels like she’s throwing a samba party in there, Geno is already settled at the kitchen counter, drooping into his cup of coffee with his eyes closed, a half eaten sandwich on a plate next to his elbow, precariously close to the edge of the table. 

Sid blames it on the dame instincts he’s been building up with the pregnancy when he saves the plate and cup of tea from certain death by being pushed off the table’s edge. He clenches his fingers into the fabric of his sweats to refrain from stroking that one errantic lock of hair out of Geno’s face, too. 

“Good morning, G.” 

Geno gives him a droopy-eyed smile and a soft, “Hi, Sid,” and Sid is struck with a feeling of _rightness_ , coming downstairs to see a sleep rumpled Geno, offering up grins before he’s even fully awake. Sid firmly pushes down the realization that _this_ is all he wants, for himself and the baby, compartmentalizes it because this is not the time.

Instead, he joins him at the table where Geno stretches out until he can place his palm over Sid’s stomach, thumb stroking soothing patterns into his skin. 

“She kicking? Always walk little bit funny when she kick.” 

“Yeah,” Sid melts into his chair, keeping his eyes on his hands wrapped around the cup. When did this happen? When did he allow Geno in like this, allow him to get so close, and when did Geno become able to read him like this? 

“Why are you up already? Isn’t it a bit early for you?” 

“Have errand. Was important!” 

“An errand?” Geno’s mellow scent, the snowy-leafy one is back, replacing the sharp tang of ice and pine and Sid tips his head against the little kitchen wall, safe in the knowledge that his daughter is calming and safe. He inhales deeply, holds his breath, then lets it go. “This early? What’d you do?” 

Instead of answering Geno rises, stumbles through the kitchen, pyjama pants hanging low around his hips, but Sid is not staring at the sliver of skin peeking out between the fabric of his shirt and his waistband, not at all, and opens up the cupboard in which Sid keeps his shopping bags. They’re located rather conveniently next to the fridge because he’s lazy and likes to just cram them into the closest space after unpacking his groceries. 

Flower likes to call it hoarding. 

Sid likes to call it practical storing for possible later use.

Instead of unearthing Sid’s _plastic-bag-filled-with-more-plastic-bags-of-shame_ though, Geno returns holding several folded up brown jute bags. 

“Drive to store, buy these. Last night, was very upset, yes?” Sid ducks his head, bringing his thumb to his lips to chew on the nail of his thumb. “So I’m think, not like see upset. I buy these and, uh, paper bags, for lunch? So not have to worry about turtles.” 

Oh, Sid thinks. 

Again. 

“So not have to worry about baby not love. Because, best dame, you know? Best. Baby will love so much!” Then he laughs, short and loud, placing one of the jute bags down in front of Sid to look at. “And turtles, too!” 

The baby kicks against the hand Sid has on his stomach, as if to agree, and his heart takes off, heat rushing into his cheeks and the tips of his ears because Geno drove all the way to some grocery store at who knows what time to replace Sid’s plastic bags with reusable ones, just because he cried on him. 

He looks at Geno, still holding out the bags, and feels something so tender rise in his chest, crawling up his lungs and spilling into his mouth. He wants to get up, wants to cradle Geno in his arms, press kisses to his cheeks, because Sid can’t imagine anyone else indulging him like this, or taking the time to fix a problem that Sid’s pregnancy hormones decided to have him sob over, no matter how irrational. Not about _turtles_ of all things. It’s… a lot, and Sid’s choking up again, because Geno’s been so good to him, but this is a whole different ball game.

And it hits him, then, that the warmth in his heart has blossomed into something well past friendship, well past fondness, that what he feels for Geno has crossed some sort of line into dangerous territory, he’s in free fall, breathless and frantic and yet… calm. 

Oh, Sid thinks. 

_Oh._

He's been incredibly blind. What he's feeling for Geno, that is not a crush, it’s anything but a crush. 

He’s helpless to do anything but smile soppily and thank him for the bags, too tender and raw and still his heart clenches painfully in his chest. 

At least he’s saving the turtles, if he can’t save himself from heartbreak. 

So Sid is in love with Geno. 

It’s not a crush, not just projection on the first Alpha to pay him any attention. 

No. 

He’s in love. 

But that’s okay, he rationalises. He’s pregnant and hormonal and once the baby arrives Geno will be… gone, and so will his hormones, and things will resolve themselves. 

He’s fine. 

He will _be_ fine. 

Shakily, Sid strokes once over his stomach. 

They will be fine.

**December 4th**

It's late a couple of days later and for a change Sid can’t get to sleep, tossing and turning restlessly because his daughter just. Will. Not. Settle. 

Lying on his side is fruitless and lying on his back is fruitless and lying with his face mushed into Geno’s stolen hoodie is fruitless so Sid gives up, heaving himself out of bed to wander down the hall into the kitchen. 

Maybe a snack will help settle her. 

In another fruitless attempt, this time an attack on Sid’s efforts to survive only off of his cravings, Geno has stacked the peanut butter in the upper shelf, out of his reach, because apparently too much sugar is not good for you, _Sid_ , but he’s pregnant and hungry and wants peanut butter. 

And well, he’s not too pregnant that dragging a chair over to the counter to get it down if he wants to isn’t a possibility. 

Or it would be, if he didn’t turn to grab the chair only to find Geno leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest and eyebrows raised. “What you doing?” 

“Nothing.” This is his kitchen and if he wants to get his peanut butter down then he does not have to justify himself to anyone. 

Geno sighs, one of those full body sighs that have his broad shoulders heave up and down, biceps flexing, but Sid isn’t looking, because that’s not good for him.

Yes, right. 

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, he manages to tear his eyes away. 

“What’re you doing up, anyway?” 

Geno stills, only for a second, and had Sid not been watching him he wouldn’t have noticed, but like this he can see the way the muscles of his forearm bunch up as they tense, can see the way Geno briefly clenches his jaw. “I’m get jar down for you. But only one spoon, yes?” He says, suddenly, leaving Sid’s question hanging in the air between them. 

He’s suitably distracted though. “Two!” He argues in return, enraged. 

“One. Tablespoon, okay, one tablespoon. Or two teaspoons.” 

“That’s the same amount!” Sid steps aside, toeing along the leg of one of his kitchen chairs so he won’t stare at Geno’s unfairly long arms reaching up to bring down his peanut butter. “That’s not fair.”

“Only way you get two spoon. Take or leave.” 

He knows a good negotiation when he sees one and gives in, accepting both the peanut butter and teaspoon handed to him with minimal complaint, then wanders off to sit down in the living room because his back _hurts_. 

Settling in against Geno’s side comes naturally to him now and while savouring the two spoons of peanut butter is a real treat, so is the long line of heat by his side. If he closed his eyes it would be so easy to imagine them as a family, a dame and a sire waiting for their unborn baby. 

And oh. 

Sid squeezes his fingers tightly around the handle of his spoon, the sweet taste of peanut butter turning cloying on his tongue. 

They are not, not a dame and a sire waiting for their unborn baby. Sid shakily exhales past the knot in his throat and rubs his palm over his stomach, up and down, treasuring the reassurance that his baby is still there, at least. 

Ignoring Geno’s searching look, he clicks on the next vine compilation - because what, he might not get some of them but they are funny, and what else is he to do at 3am on a Wednesday - and leans more heavily against his side. The arm Geno has stretched over the back of the couch tickles the fine hair at the nape of Sid’s neck and with another sigh, he tips back until Geno’s fingers collide with his shoulder. 

Immediately the tickle gets replaced by the soothing, gentle scratch of nails against his skin. 

They are in the middle of the dulcet tones of _I love you, bitch_ , strung on guitar by a halfnaked young man, when Geno absolutely loses it by his side, doubling over the armrest of the couch. His entire body shakes with loud, guffawing laughs, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. 

It’s sudden and unexpected and infectious and Sid finds himself giggling along, past the pang in his chest, glancing between the screen and the man by his side. 

“That vine,” Geno snickers, the free hand using his cup of tea to point at the screen shaking so badly from his laughter he spills tea on his joggers, “is me.” 

“Huh? What do you mean?” 

“Ah, you know…” Geno wipes at the skin under his eye and shakes his head. His eyes, when he turns to look at Sid, are gentle, tender, the crow feet in the corners smoothed out. Sid’s heart clenches painfully. The smile on his lips is so soft, yet cuts so deep. “I’m tell you another time.” 

When he wanders down the hall to his room later, tired and sated and soothed, there’s light burning in the nursery. He glances back towards the kitchen, where Geno is tidying up their dishes, then sticks his head in through the door into the nursery. 

There’s a book lying upended in the wicker chair by the crib, hidden halfway under the sheep fur he keeps lying around because it feels good against his skin. He must have forgotten about leaving the light on, earlier, except when he tapers over to the wicker chair to put away the book, it’s not one he remembers buying. The title reads ‘ _A parent's guide to your first child_ ’, with a pretty kitten painted on the front. 

Sid shrugs and tucks it into the shelf next to the window with the other prenatal and children’s books he’s amassed by now. The hormones have him a bit tizzy, lately, forgetting buying or reading a book is the last of his worries. 

He closes the door softly on his way out. 

**December 6th**

  
  


Two nights later he panics because the nursery is not yet finished and his _baby_ is coming in less than a _month_. He’s got appointments with Dr. Morris every second week now, and the baby is growing so beautifully, so perfect for Sid, and Sid can’t even offer her a fully finished nursery yet. 

He’s got some furniture, all the important things, from his parents and friends, but the walls are not painted yet and God, he’s going to be a terrible parent! 

He blubbers to Geno about it, as he tends to do now that his hormones are all over the place, apparently, and Geno doesn’t waste any time packing him and his bump into the car straight away and driving them to the closest DIY store. 

“Which one?” Sid presents two of the colour samples for Geno to inspect. He wants the nursery to be brightly painted, white or egg shell or champagne coloured. Just something pleasant on the eye. After all, he’ll probably spend a good chunk of his time sitting in the rocking chair, feeding his baby, if the pregnancy books are to be believed, and he doesn’t want to grow sick of the wall colour one month in. Because he knows himself and he knows that neither God nor Flower or Kris will be able to stop him from repainting the nursery at two am once he’s put his mind to it, high on sugar and sleep withdrawal. 

“Geno,” Sid prods the other man, who’s almost comically invested in giggling about the strange names of the colour samples. What kind of colour is _Grandma’s sock drawer_ anyway? “Which one?”

Geno glances up at once, frowns, and plucks the samples from his hand to compare them. 

“Is same colour? Is trickery question?” 

“Trick question.” It’s a bit harder to steal the samples back from Geno, because he’s taller and Sid is in no condition to get on his toes, but he’s determined. “And it’s not the same colour. This one is white, this one is egg shell white and this one is champagne white.” 

“So is all white then!” 

“No it’s not!”

"I’m not fight you on this. You are pregnant.” 

“I could take you,” Sid snaps indignantly, carefully placing the samples into their shopping basket before squaring his shoulders back, lifting his chin up high. 

“I’m not fight you, Sid,” Geno has the gall to laugh at him, bumping his knuckles lightly against his shoulder like Sid is not high on pregnancy hormones (and a little bit on paint fumes, too, probably) and ready to throw down in a DIY store.

“How’s that say? You’re not yourself if you’re hungry? I’m think you need snack.” He turns, completely ignoring the look of indignation Sid shoots him, to fish through the little baggy he’s taken to carrying around. It contains water, some snacks, extra socks, a heating pad and weirdly, perfume, like Sid is a crabby toddler that needs looking after. 

Well, maybe he’ll concede on the fact that he does need looking after. That’s why Geno is there, after all. He might also be a little bit crabby. Still. Point stands. 

“I’m not hungry,” he snarks, which is a lie, he could eat a horse right now, but he’s not about to admit defeat, oh no, instead crossing his arms over his bump and staring Geno down. 

It’s unfair how unbothered Geno is when he holds out a sandwich to him. 

“Has pickles on it.” 

Sid wavers, then uncrosses his arms and snatches it from Geno’s grasp. He knows Geno is not above holding the sandwich over his head and out of Sid’s reach if he wants to be a dick, so he’s not taking any chances.

It’s also not very good for his pride how quickly he munches down on the sandwich under Geno’s watchful gaze, but after the plastic bag and turtle incident he doesn’t hold a lot of dignity anymore. Not in front of Geno, anyway. 

“Better?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Good.” 

“So… which one?” 

Geno had that coming, therefore Sid shows absolutely no mercy at his dramatic groan, hiding his broad grin behind the last bite of his sandwich. 

This is fine. He can handle this. He’ll allow himself to have this, he decides, for as long as he can have it, and pushes the rolling wave of frothing emotions back down, deep into his heart, where he’ll lock them up and cherish them for what they are. 

Wistful dreaming. 

Later, late enough that technically Sid would already call it morning -

“Only new morning after you sleep once!” 

“It’s logically a new day, therefore morning!” 

“No. Is stupid. I’m not sleep, is same day.” 

“That’s not how time works.” 

“Is how time works in Russia.”

“I don’t believe that.” 

\- after Geno unsuccessfully tries to shoo him off to bed instead of helping, Sid catches Geno sitting in the middle of the fully painted and assembled nursery, stroking along the iceberg embroidered carpet, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“It’s beautiful,” Sid says and breaks the fragile silence between them. 

“Yeah. Yeah is beautiful.” Geno agrees. When Sid turns his head to smile at Geno, he finds Geno already looking at him, eyes liquid and dark and hooded. “Beautiful.”

**December 9th**

“Hey Sid, you see where I’m put-... oh. Oh, hey, what is wrong?” Geno drops the sweater he’s holding over the arm of the couch, then comes around to crouch down by Sid’s side. 

Sid curls tighter into himself, trying to hide his sniffling behind his hands and wiping at his eyes. He’s loath to admit how good Geno’s broad palm on his back feels still, how intuitively he leans into the simple contact by now, following the familiar scent of ice and pine, craving it viscerally. 

He allows himself a moment of weakness and sags against Geno’s side, tucking his nose into the collar of his shirt where his scent is at its most potent. 

“Baby names.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I’m just. Baby names. I-I don’t know what to call her, I-I don’t even know where to look and what if I pick a stupid one? What if she’ll hate it, w-what if she’ll hate me? I’m-... I just, I-...” He gives up trying to articulate it and drops his head back into his hands, rubbing harshly at the skin under his eyes. 

“Hey, hey, will be okay,” Geno murmurs by his ear, prying his fingers from his eyes with one hand and giving them a squeeze, a mellow cloud of snow and leaves settling over them. “Lots of online pages for baby names, yes? We look together, will find perfect one. Will be perfect, she’ll love. Because you pick, okay? And you love most. Will be perfect name for perfectest baby, okay?” 

Somehow, Sid manages to force a smile through his tears and not so gracefully accept the tissue Geno holds out to him, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose. Geno has seen him shovelling ice cream with pickles into his mouth at 2am so Sid doesn’t feel it necessary to hide his snot from him. 

They spend the better part of the afternoon browsing sites, writing down the names that appeal to Sid and giggling over those that are so absurd that Geno writes them down on a separate piece of paper to laugh about again later. 

The shadows are getting longer by the time they shut the laptop down and while Sid hasn’t picked a final name yet, he feels a thousand times better already with the little selection they have gathered. 

He’s not gonna lie to himself, it’s also mostly because of Geno. 

“And, uhm… well, is not baby name website,” Geno says, suddenly, tearing Sid abruptly from his thoughts. He tacks another name onto the bottom of their list in his terrible chicken scratch, ”but how about Natasha?” 

“Natasha?” Sid tilts his head to the side, studying the letters. He forms his mouth around the vowels and soft sounds again, redraws them with his finger over the paper. It’s… it’s not a bad name, is the thing. “Natasha. Why?” 

“Good name.” Geno studies his face for a long second and Sid can barely decipher his expression except for the small curl in the corner of his mouth he reads as amusement and the fine lines around his eyes which have been deepening. “Is good Russian name! Good Russian name for first baby, so have strong name for strong baby. Good luck for baby girl, yes? Have best Russian name for best little girl.” Sid takes note of the hesitancy in his movement when he reaches to touch the name written down. “Also so she not forget about me.” 

And that’s just typical, isn’t it? For Geno to say these things like they are okay, like they don’t punch Sid into his chest and have him choke on the feelings crawling up into his throat.

In a wistful sort of way, he can imagine a little girl with unruly dark curls and big, expressive, lidded eyes, running into Geno’s arms with Sid right behind her, as if Geno’s arms were where they both belonged. But that’s not possible, if not in the least because fucking Anthony had blue eyes. Sid tries not to think about the impossibility in the sense of Geno having no _real_ attachment to him or the baby. 

Hidden out of view he clenches his fingers into the soft fabric of his sweater and tells himself to hold on, to get a grip. 

“Is, uhm, is also maybe tradition, in my family.” Geno continues quietly.

Sid leans back, shocked surprise curling in his stomach, watching with interest how Geno stammers and stalls, aborted hand gestures sweeping across the table. “In Russia, is typical for baby born around Christmas, we call Natasha. Also, women in my family, always one generation is Natasha.”

“You said your mother’s name was Natalia,” Sid hears himself say, from somewhere far away, the words echoing in the vast emptiness of his heart.

“Natasha, is, uh, diminutive of Natalia. Nickname.” 

“Oh.” 

He’s so far gone for Geno, it’s true. And the last few months have been heaven, especially compared to how he was at the beginning of his pregnancy. He probably wouldn’t have made it this far without Geno, at least not without breaking down, and he has to be grateful for that. This, though, this is like salt in a festering wound. Hearing Geno suggest they partake in a sweet, time honored family tradition, like they are having this baby _together_? Like Geno would accept the role of sire for a baby he’s had no part in making, has no obligations to? Like Geno is here willingly, not because it is his job, not because he is literally being paid to attend to Sid’s hormones and cravings and neuroticisms? 

It hurts too much, because it hits too close to what Sid craves. 

It is simply too painful. 

He can’t consider the distant, unlikely possibility that Geno is doing anything more than his job, because that way? That way the madness lies. No one in their right mind would do such a thing. 

So Sid does what he does best and lashes out rather than process his emotions like a functioning adult. He’s nine months pregnant, he has some semblance of an excuse, at least. 

“Stop,” he snaps, clamouring to his feet and taking short, stomping steps towards the window. He needs to move, he can’t sit still, needs to get away. “You aren’t the sire! It isn’t your place to suggest things like that!” 

Geno’s been so good, he’s been so kind and clever and gentle and Sid wants to tear him apart, wants to make him hurt like he is hurting, wants to bare his teeth at him and get him to stop being so good, so kind and clever and gentle because he can’t bear another second, he’s going to break, he’s going to burst apart and then he won’t be able to put himself back together again. He’ll be a broken, splintered mess, because Geno saw his ragged edges and pried them apart to build himself a home in Sid’s heart and Sid _can’t,_ he just _can’t_ anymore! 

He can’t risk his baby, his daughter, cutting herself on the edges of his broken self once Geno is gone. 

No. Better to do the breaking himself, and maybe then he will know where the pieces are and at least sway in the idea that he can put himself back together again. 

“You aren’t the sire,” he repeats, whirling around to face Geno who’s left sitting on the couch. Sid has to avert his eyes at the… the _emotions_ he can witness playing out on Geno’s face, too quick for him to hope to grasp. All at once the smell of snow and leaves is gone and sharp ice stings his nose, pine digging into the soles of his feet and the vulnerable skin under his nails.

“Yes… Yes, Sid. Sidney, sorry.” 

And, God, his voice. Sid clamps his eyes shut, presses his lips into a thin white line and curls away from the nothing expanding between them. It is what Sid wants and yet it hurts, hurts so badly to hear Geno admit the truth, to hear him acknowledge that he is not, and will never be, the sire to Sid’s baby. 

He needs to do what is right. 

For both of them. 

“This was a terrible idea.” His voice is trembling and it’s all he can do to refrain his body from starting to shake, too. “This was a mistake, I thought this would help, I-I thought this would be good for me and the baby but-...” he breaks off, ducks his face deeper into his shoulder at the sound Geno makes somewhere deep in his throat, soft and pained. When he risks a glance upwards, towards what he had thought to be his safe haven, his rock, Geno has a hand hanging in the air, like he is about to reach out, to tug Sid back in, to shelter him like he has been doing these past few months. 

But this isn’t something Sid needs Geno to protect him from. 

No, this is Sid needing to protect himself from Geno. 

“But it was good, _is_ good,” Geno insists, rising, and Sid falters, lower back bumping against the windowsill. “Is good, for you, for baby. For me!” 

And Sid _can’t_. 

He can’t, he can’t! 

The sincerity in Geno’s words, the open honesty, he can’t, because it was good, so good, Sid was so happy but he can’t. So he does what he should have done the first time he noticed the happiness coiling in his chest whenever he is around Geno, the light, airy feeling replacing the dread and fatigue. 

“Was _good_ , Sid! I don’t understand-...” 

“I need you to go.” 

“Sidney-...” 

“I need you to _go_!” 

And Geno goes. 

He leaves the living room and he leaves the apartment and he leaves Sid’s life, just like he had come in, abruptly, and he closes the door behind himself. 

And all that’s left for Sid to do is stagger into his bedroom and curl up in his nest and wrap his arms around his stomach and cling to the mantra that everything will be fine. He barely sleeps that night, lying on his side with Geno’s hoodie bundled into his arms, trying desperately for some indication that he did the right thing. 

**December 10th**

So he does what he always does when he messes up and doesn’t know what to do: He calls Flower. He’s snuggled into Geno’s hoodie, dug out of his nest supply material where he had hidden it under plush blankets and some pillows. It still smells like him. 

“Why, Sid?” Flower’s voice doesn’t hold any judgement and Sid draws the comfort he needs out of that. 

“Because he was making me happy, Flower. He was making me so happy.”

“Oh Sid,” Flower sighs and Sid bites back another noise. “Why didn’t you allow him to make you happy?” 

“B-because we were only playing at it, you know?” He stops, sniffs, rubs his face with his sleeve. His stomach cramps painfully and he presses a hand to it, trying to settle his daughter back down. 

“Playing at what?”

“Playing at being a-... ah! At being some kind of family.” His next hiccup is interrupted by another painful cramp and he sucks his breath in, hissing it out slowly past his teeth. “He was only here because he was paid to be and I… Flower it would have torn me apart, the second he noticed that I was stupid enough to, to fall for him just because he was nice to me.” 

“Why would you think that?” Another cramp, another hiss. “Are you okay? Sid?” 

“Fine, she’s just. Hmm.. She’s just kicking.” 

“You know, Sid,” Flower interrupts, sounding both sad and irate at the same time. “Most people aren’t seeing you the way you perceive yourself.” 

Sid shifts, tries to get comfortable where he’s curled against one edge of his nest. He braces his hand against the sheets, slowly lowering more of his weight onto it and hissing at the next stabbing pain. Except when he moves to shift his hand slips in something liquid. 

He must have spilled something, earlier, and not have noticed. 

But when he looks down, there is a dark, wet spot soaking through his joggers and for a moment he’s worried he’s lost control of his bladder, when he realizes that that’s not a spill and his daughter is not kicking. 

“Sid?” 

He can’t breath. Not now.

With a loud clatter his phone lands on the bedroom floor. 

He cramps again, harder than before, a terrible burst of pain that has him bite his teeth together and scream, scream and fist his hands and curl up. More liquid pools between his thighs.

Time passes hazily from there. He has vague recollections of arms scooping him up from the pile of blankets and voices, first one, talking quickly and loudly and Sid wants to tell the voice to be quiet, to please be quiet because someone is screaming and it’s so loud. 

He can’t focus on anything except that it hurts. 

The only thing keeping him grounded is the familiar scent of ice and pine that he struggles to place in the face of the blinding pain.

There are voices all around him now and most of them fade into a vaguely irritating buzz, but one soft, warm tone filters through the pain and chaos and anxiety.

“Sh, is okay, is okay, I’m here.” 

It hurts and then it stops for a second and then it hurts again, so fiercely, and all he can do is cling to the hand holding his. 

“Sir, you need to step back, we need to get him into the ambulance.” 

Something growls by his ear and he’s barely able to come back, he’s just about able to see clearly again, to focus, when another wave of pain wrecks through him. Then he’s moving, traveling at speeds that probably aren’t legal and he has the hysterical, irrational need to snap at the driver to slow down.

But what he remembers most is the pain. A repeated stabbing, like the time when he was a kid and got a fishing hook stuck in his thumb, only worse, so much worse, all consuming and overwhelming until it is all he consists of, flaming, licking pain. 

“Doing so good, Sid, perfect, baby, is okay.” 

Nothing is clear, it’s all a haze of following the order to _push_ , a tight grip on his wrist, and the pain worsens and worsens and he pushes and screams. 

Again and again and again. 

He’s faintly aware that he’s crying, of someone wiping his cheeks and kissing his forehead and clutching his hands. 

And then.

And then, high pitched wails fill the air and Sid snaps his eyes open, head tumbling to the side, hands clawing at the white sheets of his hospital nest. 

It all comes rushing back, snapping into focus and colour and sound around him. 

Hospital.

He’s in a hospital nest, delirious, surrounded by white walls and sterile smells except for a soft undercurrent of snow and leaves and-... 

Another soft wail.

Sid flails, tries to sit, but a very insistent hand pushes him back down. 

“Sh, Sid, is okay. I’m here, she is safe, is all okay,” a voice murmurs by his ear and a hand grasps his again and it’s all Sid can do to cling to Geno, staring wide eyed at the wailing bundle nestled into the crook of Geno’s elbow, pink and wrinkly and beautiful. 

He makes a wordless plea and then. And then his daughter is in his arms, on his chest, tiny and loud and perfect. 

A fresh wave of tears stream down his face as Sid cradles the baby to his chest, and he’s exhausted, fatigued, his lower body hurts badly, but he musters up the energy to smile, beaming and a little weary, as his baby girl blinks her wide eyes up at him, cries finally quieting as she settles against Sid’s skin. 

In that moment, Sid is sure he has never been happier with his arms full of his sweet baby girl and his heart brimming with happiness and gratitude. There’s muffled sniffles he can hear just off to the side.

“Geno?” Sid’s voice comes out weak and croaky, worn out from the strain constant yelling and sobbing put it through. 

He’s exhausted. 

In his arms, his daughter makes another soft gurgly sound. 

“They give me baby, probably think I’m sire. Haha.” 

Geno is here. By his side. One arm loosely curled around his middle and the other inching towards the newborn on his chest, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch, allowed to stay. 

“You came back,” Sid whispers, because Geno is here, smelling of leaves and snow and cinnamon, soft and shy, with a hand on his daughter’s back. “Your scent.” 

Geno ducks his head, rolls it to the side like he’s trying to hide himself. 

“Your scent. Because of the baby, your scent. All along.” He’s not making sense, he thinks, but Geno stills, turns his face away. 

He’s so exhausted. 

The hospital nest is wrong, the shape is wrong and the smell is wrong and the fabric is wrong but he’s still swaddled in Geno’s hoodie and that scent is right. It’s _right._

He’s so exhausted. 

“Sid, I’m-...” 

“Stay.” 

His eyes fall close and his numb body becomes heavy and his breath deepens but he’s safe, his Alpha is here, his baby’s sire is here, they are safe. 

Geno came back.

“Stay,” he says again, and then he’s out.

**December 12th**

“Stress induced birth,” the doctor says, glancing back up from the clipboard he has in his hands. “We can see a hormonal spike here we often find in Omegas whose mates pass away suddenly.” His eyes flicker from Sid to Geno, who shifts. Sid tucks his daughter more firmly against him. 

It’s been a turbulent 24 hours of visitors and tests and he’s still sore and numb at the same time, hooked up to beeping machines and still in Geno’s hoodie. 

Geno, who didn’t leave his side once, trying to curl his large body into one of the rickety plastic hospital chairs and snapping his teeth at nurses suggesting he leave. 

The doctor nods to himself and closes his clipboard. “Post-birth blood analysis shows normal, healthy levels, in both you and your daughter. Everything looks good, Mr. Crosby, we’ll send a copy of these to your gynaecologist and have everything settled.” 

The room is quiet when he leaves. 

Geno shifts again, then rises, then sits down again under Sid’s watchful gaze. 

They haven’t talked yet. Haven’t had any chance or quiet moment alone and he’s been loath to allow anyone close to his baby, drawing blood earlier had not been a nice experience for either him or the nurses, but he tolerates Geno close. Wants him close, even. 

It’s time they talked. 

“They think you-...”

“I'm quit.” 

Sid reels at the sudden interruption, blinking twice to sort his thoughts. “You. What?” 

“I’m quit. Not want be working there anymore. Not-... Sid! They send me to work for Omega, say ‘oh be careful, very stubborn’, but they don’t say Sidney Crosby is funny, smart, beautiful man. Stubborn, yes, crabby, but… I stay with you and I see you and I want. Want… Sid, I want.” Geno reaches out, slowly, slow enough that even with his pain killer addled brain Sid could react quickly enough to withdraw his hand. 

But he’s been fighting so much again lately, and he’s exhausted. And also, he misses Geno, misses him so viscerally, that he doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but exhale shakily when Geno cradles his hand in his big palms and brings it to his mouth to kiss his knuckles.

Sid laughs shakily. He can’t believe he’s hearing Geno say these words, after this much doubting, and maybe he should be surprised but oddly, it just. It just fits. He laughs wetly and gives Geno’s hand a squeeze. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Only want you, Sid. Want you, and,” Geno’s eyes flicker over to his chest where his daughter is sleeping peacefully. 

“Want-...” 

“I want you to be there. I-I’m not asking you to be her sire,” Geno inhales sharply and Sid is helpless to do anything but smile at him, “but I want you. In my life, in the baby’s life, I want you to be a part of our life. I just… I really like you, Geno.” 

Geno laughs, rubbing at his face though it does little to hide the helpless smile from Sid. “I really like you, too. Like you both. So much!”

"Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He lowers his hands and throws Sid a fond yet exasperated look. “I’m drive 20 minutes to only open store at 4am to replace all your plastic bags with reusable. Didn’t think I had to.”

“Ah.” Sid flushes, grin, ducks his head. “My bad.” 

There are still a lot of things they need to talk about, but for now, with the baby and Geno right there, with his little family by his side, everything is perfect.

Well, there’s one thing left to do.

“I want to kiss you so badly. Can I, please?”

"Yes. Always yes. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> 18k and a lot of struggling later here we are. 
> 
> Taking part in this challenge was actually quite... challenging, but I am proud that I managed to finish it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think and thanks for reading!


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